The Tortoise in Asia

by Tony Grey

  “What secret strategy?”

  “I dare not disclose it Sire, even at this conference.”

  “Come closer then and whisper it in our ear.”

  He hesitates, momentarily contemplating an excuse, for it’s really too sensitive a matter to disclose to such an unreliable man, even if he is the monarch. However he thinks better of it and complies. Orodes smiles – more a crafty grimace than a smile.

  “Very ingenious Surena. But that would only apply if we go to war. Have all opportunities for diplomacy been exhausted? Maybe we could negotiate a treaty. That would be better than chancing our arm. It would avoid the risk of defeat and, besides, save lives.”

  The Commander’s face hardens, frustration rising like an attack of heartburn, searing his throat and constricting its air passage. Politeness struggles in his voice.

  “Noble Sire, how can we deal with Crassus when he dismisses our emissaries without even a reply? The pig will not negotiate. I assure Your Majesty, the Romans are bent on conquest. It’s their nature.”

  “There comes a time when war is the necessary next step in a dispute, and now is such a time. When that point arrives, the enemy senses cowardice in diplomatic overtures. They are emboldened by the contempt they feel when they are tried.”

  “I humbly advise that the only response is for Your Majesty to show the same resolve that your illustrious predecessor did years ago when he stopped the wild Hsiung-nu after they pushed into our territory.”

  Orodes winces and frowns to cover it up. He doesn’t know much history but he knows that. The insult is clear, all the more as it highlights a weakness that he keeps wrapped in denial. But it would be undignified if not downright risky to argue the point with one so admired for valour, so he lets it pass. Anyway, he feels exhausted by these hard decisions. Why can’t those tiresome Romans just leave him in peace? What has he ever done to deserve this? He’s never fought them, never even threatened them.

  He dislikes the unpleasantness of war, has no skill in battle, no interest at all in military strategy. He detests the arduous conditions on campaign, and having to deal with men so much stronger, men he knows will never respect him. Valour is not in his character, just not there. All he wants is a quiet life, self indulgent of course, but what’s the use of being a monarch if he can’t do what he wants? Being soft is not a sin, as long as he doesn’t hurt anyone. Besides, plenty of people are that way. Let the warlike have their hardy ways; there’re enough of them to keep the Kingdom safe. The moral capital the Parthians have built up over years of self denial is enough to allow for a little spending.

  To skirt the risk of battle would be the most desirable strategy. But it’s obvious that diplomacy has run its course. What makes matters worse though, is the ascendancy of Surena, a threat even more proximate than the Romans. That ambitious man placed the crown once; he’s sure to want to put it on his own head next time. Having just subdued the rebellion, if he wins a great victory against the invaders his popularity could well shake the throne.

  “If it has to be war you have got to make do with the force you have. We need those men you requested for the autumn palace we are building. Why can’t you defeat the Romans with your present strength?”

  Surena is aghast. Not even his contempt for Orodes has prepared him for this. With fury bending his brow, he looks down at the floor, then around to the nobles and priests who’re riveted in apprehension. After a silence of half a minute, he says in a stifled, quiet voice, both arms outstretched,

  “The Roman force is forty thousand, Sire. We have only ten thousand horse archers in the regular army plus a few thousand from the local satrap. The odds are overwhelming, especially given the reputation of the Roman army.”

  A hooded look falls over Orodes. It’s useless to argue with the famous Commander. The plan his old friend and mentor, Versaces, suggested last week should be adopted. A nobleman with no independent power base and in need of royal favour after catastrophic losses on his estate, he can be trusted. Besides, he too is jealous of Surena for having superseded him as head of the army before he was ready to retire. If war’s inevitable, then let Surena fight the Romans and lose.

  Before the battle starts he’ll go to Armenia with a second army commanded by Versaces to punish King Artavasdes for helping the Romans. It’ll be an easy campaign and will remove any threat from the north. After his defeat, Artavasdes can be bribed to join forces with Versaces’ army. Then, with Crassus’ army weakened by the battle with Surena, the allies will either defeat the Romans or compel them to leave with threats from a position of strength. Surena can be blamed if he loses and executed. If he wins, another excuse will have to be found, but, given the likelihood of a Roman victory, that may not be necessary. It’s best not to provide more troops.

  He’s about to announce this but before he can speak, the Supreme Magus, a white-bearded and pious scholar, whose hard eyes imply that any compassion he might possess is learned and not felt, enters the debate. He owes his office to a profound knowledge of the Avesta text.

  “Noble Sire, Ahura Mazda, the one god of the universe, commands us to combat Evil wherever it is found. It is here, now, in our ancestral land. Our holy prophet, Zoroaster, bless his name,” (the assembly mumbles a repetition) “requires constant vigilance in the eternal struggle between Light and Darkness. These Romans, these devils who worship nothing more evolved than images of humans in the sky, come to our country as emissaries of the Evil One. They must be expelled at all costs.

  “We cannot endure foreign armies on our sacred soil, especially this one. No loss is too great for us to suffer in expelling them, no horror too cruel; death in this just struggle is a noble sacrifice that Ahura Mazda will reward at the time of judgement.

  “The Romans are disrespectful of our culture. They eat our crops and degrade our women. Their air of superiority and intention to dominate the world are an abomination. We must mount a holy war against these people who seek to pollute the purity of our ways. Sire, you must, in the name of the Avesta, give Commander Surena what he asks for.”

  As the nobles and priests nod their heads, Orodes shifts on his cushion and grimaces. The only sensible choice is to cave in; not a good time to brook opposition in the Court, especially since Mithridates’ insurrection shows he doesn’t have universal support.

  “All right, Surena, you shall have your five thousand. War it is. But see to it that you expel the hated invaders. We are tired of these discussions now; they bore us. You are all dismissed.”

  It would have been better if the King had volunteered more troops, but the outcome is acceptable – war will be declared and he has another five thousand men. More fruitless negotiations will be avoided and his hatred of the Romans, greater even than the old priest’s, will be given full rein.

  Hatred and its sibling, anger, are a constant in his psyche – flaring up especially whenever that feeble man on the throne comes to mind, when he, eminently more qualified and from a family just as exalted, is relegated to second place. Spiced with cruelty, they’re nourishment for him, generating energy to excel in every competitive action. They justify a sense of entitlement and naturally lead to demands for obedience and hard work from others without any requirement for gratitude.

  The feeling keeps him alert, ready to counter threats which can emerge at any time out of the toxic intrigues at Court. People however acknowledge that his patriotism is genuine, drives him to prodigious efforts on behalf of his fellow countrymen. He’s a good man for war, more than good; he’s one of the best generals the Parthians have ever produced. His restless personality suits mobile warfare, his specialty as the Parthians rely on cavalry not infantry. Provoking change and doing the unexpected are as natural to him as galloping is to a horse. And what exhilaration it is to catch the enemy wrong footed. A hungry lion can’t spot and exploit a weakness more mercilessly. He enjoys a respect bordering on adulation from his troops, although nothing approaching affection. He’s more a weapon than a human being.<
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  The King rises suddenly and exits quickly through a door next to the throne, followed by the pages, struggling to keep up. There’s no point being slow about it. What a relief the proceedings are over. He’s ready for a break with his musicians and dancers, particularly that luscious one from the Zagros Mountains. Thankfully, the prospect of carnal pleasures for the rest of the day is enough to erase the distaste of having to deal with that obnoxious general. Some of the strong wine from Shiraz – maybe more than usual today, will help too.

  Later he’ll give the order to Versaces to get his troops ready for the Armenian invasion. It’s a good plan, with the sort of deviousness that appeals to him, and ought to deal with the Surena threat, even if the dreadful man has a few more troops. On the way out he feels mellow again, mellow enough to think about what reward he should give Versaces for success. He can be generous when pleased, noted for it. It makes up, at least in part, for the less admirable aspects of his character.

  As soon as Orodes departs, the nobles and priests file out of the hall through the massive front doors, calmed down now that a clear and credible strategy has been adopted. The Supreme Magus was good today, a hard man for a spiritual leader but strong in a crisis. The King looked wobbly until he brought religion into it. All have unbounded faith in Surena and his well trained troops, thankful he’s there to save the nation so they don’t have to rely on Orodes. Let the King have his harmless indulgences as long as order is kept under him and a competent military commander does the fighting.

  Surena stays behind, not mixing with the others. He wants to be alone for a moment to collect his thoughts. The King’s decision was satisfactory, even though it didn’t go as far as he would like. But what a cretin! He was going to refuse any more troops until the old priest intervened, and for such a frivolous reason – building another palace while the country was being invaded! It was almost impossible to be civil to him. That such a man should be on the throne is a travesty. He himself should be there. The sense of injustice that he isn’t boils his heart, heats an anger that he can’t hold in. At the top of his voice, not caring who might hear, he shouts into the empty hall.

  “Why, just because he’s king do I have to ignore his faults, suspend my judgement of his stupidity? Why do I have to extol virtues that don’t exist? No virtues whatever are there, none, none, none.”

  He leaves in a foul humour and rides immediately to the army which is encamped outside the city. After calling the senior officers together, he gruffly orders them to incorporate the reinforcements. They’ve seen him in bad moods before so say nothing and merely go off to carry out the command. Secretly he’s already made the selections, counting on getting the authority. Putting the finishing touches on that was the real reason why he was late for the conference.

  ❧

  As soon as the new recruits are equipped, they link up with the main body. Fifteen thousand Parthians plus a few thousand allies begin the march towards Carrhae, a small town several days north east of the Euphrates as it approaches Armenia. It’s not far from the Road. There, he’ll wait for Crassus, for he’s sure the Roman general will continue his march east of the river. He has a plan to make certain of it.

  The troops make fast progress since they’re all skilled horsemen, trained to ride on the open grasslands since childhood, hardy and at one with their mounts. There’s no infantry to slow them down. He rides by himself, deep in thought, working out, rejecting, working out again surprises to spring on the enemy. This is the biggest challenge of his career; he must not fail. The whole nation’s survival rests on him, him alone, on his creativity, his ingenuity. To overcome this enemy, with its numerical superiority, he’s got to be unpredictable, even quirky. He’s up to it, no question – never known defeat. This will not be, determinably not be, the first one. Even so, though hard to admit and never to anyone else, the odds are against him.

  As he always does for his campaigns, he brings two hundred chariots filled with concubines. Special agents are charged with scouring the Empire for the prettiest. Freshness is assured by continual replacement. The current favourite is Daka, a sloe-eyed beauty from Tabriz

  Bringing so many on campaign is an indulgence politely ignored by the Supreme Magus and his entourage of priests which accompanies the army. The sacerdotal presence is required to convince the pious troops that Ahura Mazda is on their side. They need to be reminded that the single god is a far more powerful force than the disparate and often quarrelsome pantheon of the Romans. Besides, just before the battle, the priests will deliver the divine message that sacrifice of life in the name of the one true god will ensure a place in Paradise.

  Given the dire circumstances they’re in, the men can use a spiritual lift to animate to the fullest their natural desire to rid their homeland of the foreign infidels. These agents of the Evil One are reputed to be the best soldiers in the world; moreover they’re more numerous. They’ll test the power of Ahura Mazda as never before; it’ll be a primal contest between Light and Dark.

  At the end of the day’s march, which accomplished a good part of the distance to Carrhae, he calls Sillaces, his Second in Command, to the headquarters tent.

  “Sillaces, here’s the strategy. After we deploy the secret weapon, we’ll hit them with a punch from the cataphracts. The Romans aren’t used to heavy cavalry, probably never seen it before. Then we’ll follow up with the light horse archers.”

  “Yes, my Lord. Their manoeuvrability will make up for the enemy’s greater numbers – plus of course your notable tactical skills, especially in territory you know well.”

  Surena nods.

  “It’s critical though, that we fight on flat and open ground. If our cavalry get bottled up in trees or rough terrain, their infantry will cut us to pieces. In the open space we’ll have the advantage. We must try everything to ensure that.”

  “How will we do it my Lord?”

  “I’ve got an idea I’m working on. Leave it with me.”

  He dismisses Sillaces and calls for Daka to come to his personal tent. He plans dinner with her tonight. The day’s ride has been hard and he’s had a brain-wrenching time working out how to cope with the Romans. He needs a little relaxation. Before long, Daka appears at his sumptuously decorated tent, colourful silks draped from the apex and finely woven carpets covering the ground. A low table is set with a deep-cushioned couch opposite. Sleeping quarters are nearby, discretely closed off with a curtain.

  “Hello my dear. Come in. I’ve brought you a present.”

  “Oh, what is it my Lord?”

  He produces a solid gold pectoral, inlaid with stags fashioned from lapis lazuli, to be worn flat just under the neck.

  “Here, I bought it especially for you, as I know you love lapis. It comes from the main market in Seleucia. Remember, we were there for the civil war? I hope you like it. Come, sit down with me.”

  “It’s beautiful, the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen. You’re really so generous my Lord. I don’t know what to say, except thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  She throws her arms around his neck and gives him a long kiss on the lips, and he smiles, for the first time today, the first time for many days. It’s not the thing he normally does. In fact sometimes he looks a touch artificial when he does it. But not tonight.

  He feels the cares fall away like a piece of silk slipping from a table as she tells him about her day – the bumpy ride in the chariot, the antics of the horses, the gossip of the other women, the heat, and, best of all her longing to see him. Her voice is beguiling, like a cascading mountain stream, sparkling in the sun.

  He calls for wine and drinks with her. He feels comfortable, gruntled, as her open and affectionate attitude begins to penetrate his skin, so hardened by the demands of his character. Dinner comes and goes in a happy haze. She might well do for a bride, but no of course not; he must marry into a noble family.

  The night passes in quiet pleasure and he feels refreshed in the morning. It’s just as well fo
r he’ll have to spend the day’s march completing the action plan he’s been forming in his mind. One more day after this and he’ll be close to Carrhae where he expects to meet his adversary.

  CHAPTER 3

  While the bridge crawls across the Euphrates, Marcus and Gaius Fulvius Aquila take a stroll to Zeugma. Never taken by education – uninterested in books, Gaius only ever wanted to join the army. He accepts that high rank is beyond him, content with being an ordinary centurion, practical and reliable. In the earthy twang of his youth, he often teases Marcus about his aspirations, especially the improved accent.

  The two are life-long friends, unfazed by differences. Underneath, their values are the same, a moral linkage which allows each to admire the other’s qualities. Gaius is stronger, Marcus quicker. The big man has more of an earthy attitude to life, uncomplicated by the disappointments attending ambition. He’s a natural Stoic; Marcus works at it.

  In a few minutes, another centurion in their cohort catches up with them, slightly out of breathe. Marcus says,

  “Ave Quintus. You want to come with us for a drink?”

  “Sure. I thought we were all going together.”

  Slightly embarrassed for leaving him behind, Marcus and Gaius mutter something friendly and non committal and Quintus joins them. He might have said something sarcastic but lets it pass.

  When they get to the town they wander through unpaved streets full of bustling merchants, women too, but not many. Some people are on donkeys, others on camels laden with packing cases, but most are on foot, busy and loquacious. The atmosphere is organic, of braying and snorting and shouts, of sweat and animal droppings, of the touch of strange bodies brushing by in the moving crowd. Spicy cooking smells flow through the street like a light fog.